


and oh, my dreams

by remy (iamremy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: African Dream Root, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Mutual Pining, Overprotective Dean Winchester, Witch Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22667866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: When Sam loses consciousness on a hunt after being attacked with djinn venom, it's up to Cas to venture into his subconscious and try to find him there.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 25
Kudos: 146





	and oh, my dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesbiansamstiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbiansamstiel/gifts).



> i wrote this for last year's sastiel secret santa event over on tumblr. my recipient was lesbiansamstiel. i meant to upload this earlier but entirely forgot, oops .-. well, better late than never!!
> 
> title is from [dreams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yam5uK6e-bQ) by the cranberries. the fic contains mild (veeeery mild, blink and you'll miss it) spoilers for season 11.

“Sammy, watch out!” screams Dean, but it’s too late; the spell hits Sam square in the chest, throwing him back a good few meters into the wall behind him. There is a sickening _crack_ as he hits his head, before crumpling to the floor in a heap.

“You bitch,” Dean begins with a growl, turning to the witch responsible for all of this, but before he can do more than take a couple steps Castiel plunges his blade into her back. A scream, a flare of bright pink light, and then the witch is falling to the floor as Castiel lets go of her corpse in his hurry to get to Sam.

Dean is already there, pulling Sam’s limp form into his lap and pressing his fingers to Sam’s throat. “Alive,” he croaks out in relief.

“What did she hit him with?” Cas asks quietly, kneeling next to Dean. He can’t take his eyes off Sam’s face, slack and unresponsive, and he knows when he looks up he’s going to see some of Sam’s blood on the wall where he’d hit his head.

He doesn’t look up. Angels don’t experience nausea, but Cas has no wish to test it for himself.

“Same spell she used on the others,” Dean tells Cas, adjusting his grip on Sam so he can use one hand to pull out a handkerchief and hold it to the back of Sam’s head. “Knocks ‘em out, drains their life force to extend her own lifespan. Bitch,” he adds again with feeling.

“What can we do?” Cas asks, keeping his eyes on Dean’s face so that he doesn’t have to look at the handkerchief soaking up blood rapidly. Head wounds, they bleed a lot, he knows. Even when they’re not serious.

“Heal him, first of all,” Dean says, and immediately Cas places his hand on Sam’s forehead. He is glad for the instruction. He has led armies into battle, been in countless fights… and yet there is something about seeing Sam hurt that makes his being descend into chaos. Makes his brain fuzzy, to paraphrase Dean.

“I can only heal the injury,” Cas tells Dean after a moment. “I can’t wake him up.” There is an edge of panic to his tone, and he takes a moment to center himself. He cannot lose his cool, no matter what. Dean is barely hanging on as it is, desperation shining in his eyes, and if Castiel panics then Dean will too, and then who will help Sam?

“Sammy told me she used djinn venom in her spell,” Dean says, eyes glued to Sam’s face. “To keep her victims stuck in their own heads while she drank them. I say we get him back to the motel, keep him safe, and then—”

“African dream root,” completes Castiel.

Dean nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice taut.

Having a plan makes Cas feel marginally better. Between the two of them, he and Dean manage to lift Sam off the dirty floor of the witch’s basement and carry him to the Impala, where Cas watches Dean settle him gently in the backseat.

The way Dean touches Sam is so tender, thinks Cas absently as he gets into the front seat, where Sam should be. So careful, like Sam’s breakable even when they all know he isn’t. And Cas hasn’t missed the way Sam smiles at his brother’s touches, the way he leans into them and seeks comfort from them. And he definitely hasn’t missed the way seeing Sam happy makes him feel inside, where his heart would be if he were human.

What wouldn’t he give, he thinks, to be able to touch Sam like that too. So freely, so fearlessly. To touch his arm in passing, to run his fingers through his hair, to trace the line of his mouth. To be able to carry out all these tender, intimate gestures, and to have it be natural, organic. To do more than just look for excuses, fingers tangling as Sam passes something to him, or Cas’s hand lingering on Sam’s forehead for just a second longer than necessary.

He’d give his grace, he thinks, to have what Dean takes for granted.

But that’s not fair to Dean, he thinks as he spots Dean looking at Sam in the rearview mirror. Dean is Sam’s big brother, the one person who loves Sam the most in the world. He is Sam’s soulmate, on earth and in Heaven. Their souls were made from the same star, eons before their bodies were. Eons before Castiel even came into being. And he may be celestial, and he may be divine and full of grace – but a soul he does not have. In that regard he will never compare to Dean; when measured against Dean’s, his love will always fall short.

They reach their motel. Dean assigns Cas to get their bags while he takes over the task of lifting Sam’s still form out of the backseat. And then it falls to Cas to make Sam comfortable on the bed while Dean fetches dream root from the Impala’s trunk.

“This will work, right?” Cas can’t help but ask, watching Dean brew the foul-looking drink with the dream root.

“Has to,” Dean says shortly. The way he says it leaves no room for any alternative.

He would destroy the earth, move the sun and moon and every star in the sky, all for his little brother. And Castiel would do the same, he knows. His love for Sam might be very different to Dean’s, but no less strong for it.

“Dean,” he says quietly, sitting down on the bed next to Sam.

Dean pauses with the glass halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”

“I would like to drink it,” Cas tells him.

“What?”

Cas nods. “I want to drink it,” he says again.

“But how will you know where to find him?” Dean asks.

Cas gives him a crooked sort of smile. “I would like to think I know Sam well enough by now to know what goes on in his head,” he says in what he hopes is a reassuring voice. “Please,” he adds when Dean still does not look convinced. “I want – I want to help him. I want to bring him back. Let me, Dean.”

Dean looks down at Sam, and then up at Cas. For a moment Cas can see hesitation on his face, can almost hear his thoughts, hear him wonder if he can even trust Sam with anyone other than himself. And for a moment it really looks like he is going to refuse – but then his expression clears, and he hands Cas the glass.

“Two hours,” he tells Cas. “If you’re both not awake by then, I’m going in, too.”

“Let’s hope it does not come to that,” Cas murmurs, accepting the glass with a grateful smile towards Dean.

“Yeah,” is all Dean says. “Okay, doors and windows locked and salted, and Sam put a devil’s trap under that fuck-ugly carpet when we got here. I’ve got my angel blade—” He removes it from his pocket and lays it across his knees, “and my witch-killing bullets—” he pulls his Colt from inside his jacket, “and Sammy’s silver devil trap bullets, just in case.” And with that, he pulls out Sam’s Taurus.

Castiel blinks. “Right,” he says in the end, when Dean does not pull any more weapons out. Castiel has no doubt that there are more on his person, but Dean already looks determined and overprepared as it is, and Cas is not about to pass comments on an overprotective big brother who also doubles as a walking, talking arsenal.

“Two hours,” Dean reminds Cas. “And just so you know, it tastes like ass.”

“Thanks for the warning,” mutters Cas, and downs the mixture in one go. Dean’s right, it does taste awful, and he can’t help but grimace at the taste. “This is _revolting_ —” he begins—

—and passes out immediately, body landing next to Sam’s on the bed.

He’s in the bunker when he wakes up, in Sam’s room. Sitting up, Castiel looks around, trying to get a sense of his surroundings.

There are two pillows on Sam’s bed, where usually there is only one. Other than that, the room looks like it always has. The television is on, notes Castiel, with Sam’s Netflix on the screen, paused on the ninth episode of _The Good Place_.

This is a memory, Castiel realizes – or partially one. He remembers watching this show when he’d first discovered Sam’s Netflix. He remembers not leaving Sam’s room for days on end. But he does not remember there being two pillows on the bed. Sam hadn’t shared the bed with him during the time he’d appropriated Sam’s room – he’d just temporarily moved in with Dean.

The pillows, then, are an addition made courtesy of Sam’s mind.

Castiel gets off the bed and on his feet, advancing towards the open door. The hallway is empty, though he hears Dean snoring as he passes by his door. Going by the inactivity, it seems to be nighttime.

He finds Sam in the library, in his usual place at the table, bent over his journal. “Hey,” he says quietly, coming to a stand next to him. “Sam.”

Sam looks up, and smiles, soft and sleepy. “Hey, Cas,” he says. “I know I said I’d come to bed an hour ago, but I just lost track of the time—”

Cas had just opened his mouth to inform Sam that this wasn’t the real world, but something in Sam’s sentence makes him stop short. “Come to bed?” he repeats. “Your bed?”

“Well,” Sam says with a little laugh. “Technically our bed.”

“Our bed.” Cas is aware he sounds like an idiot, but he’s having trouble deciphering Sam’s meaning. “The bed that we… that we share.”

“That would be the one,” Sam says wryly. “The bed we share, and sleep in, and… do other things.”

“I don’t sleep,” is Castiel’s intelligent response.

Sam laughs. “Well, yes, but that hasn’t stopped you from lying down with me anyway. Thanks for that, by the way,” he adds fondly. “I know it must be really boring for you to stay in bed with me and do nothing else.”

Boring? _Boring?_ Oh, if only Sam knew what Cas would give to do just that for the rest of his existence.

“It’s not boring,” he manages in the end. It feels like he’s missing something here, some crucial piece of information that he really should possess.

“Thanks,” Sam says with a grin. “Appreciate it.” He glances back down to his journal, scribbles a few more words, and then shuts it with a snap. “Okay, wanna see something cool before we go to bed?”

“We don’t have time,” Cas begins, abruptly remembering what he’s here to do, but Sam cuts across him.

“Aw, come on, Cas, we don’t really have anything else to be doing,” he says, and then gets to his feet. “C’mon,” he says, and reaches out to take Cas’s hand.

Before Cas can react, the library dissolves in a blur around them. A second later the world solidifies again, condensing into starlight and silvery moonlight on dark green leaves. Cas smells roses, and mint, and sage, and coriander, and rosemary—

“Look,” Sam says, whispering as if he’s letting Cas in on a secret.

Cas follows his gaze to a cluster of purple flowers, glowing almost ethereally in the moonlight. “What are they?” he finds himself asking.

“Lilacs,” Sam tells him, still in that low voice. He’s got that look of excitement on his face that he only gets around books and libraries.

“Are they supposed to – to glow?”

Sam grins. “Well, no,” he admits. “I may or may not have, um, used magic. To, uh, reinforce the soil, make it better. The glowing is a little side effect.”

 _Side effect_ is not what Cas would call it. The flowers are beautiful, glowing in the starlight, though they pale in comparison to the way Sam looks right now.

“Where are we?” Cas asks.

“Woods outside the bunker,” Sam tells him, squeezing his fingers, and oh, Castiel remembers with a jolt that yes, they’re still holding hands. “I found this clearing, and I thought it’d be a good idea to plant some flowers and trees, the stuff we commonly use in spells, you know, so we wouldn’t have to worry about searching for it, or running out—”

Sam’s hand is warm in Castiel’s despite the chilly night air, palms and fingers callused. If Castiel moves his thumb just so, he can feel Sam’s pulse through the delicate skin of his wrist. And if he moves it down instead of up, he can trace over Sam’s thumb.

“Sam,” he says, throat dry. He wants to memorize this moment, the feeling of Sam’s fingers laced with his. But he’s here for a reason, and even though all he wants is to stay here and listen to Sam talk, he knows he must go back to the waking world. He has been here a while, and he only has two hours; he _must_ get Sam home.

“Yeah?”

“Sam, listen to me,” Cas says, a little more urgently.

“Cas, what is it?” Sam asks, now looking a little concerned.

“This is not real,” Cas tells him. “None of this is real. This is not actually happening.”

Sam’s face goes instantly blank. Cas only has a moment to feel regret as Sam’s hand slips out of his, for then Sam asks, voice hard, “What do you mean it isn’t real?”

“You’re asleep right now,” Cas tells him.

“Are _you_ real?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” Cas answers. “Yes, Sam.”

“How can I know?” There is an undercurrent of panic in Sam’s tone. “How do I know it’s you? Are you Cas, or are you Lucifer?”

“Lucifer—?” It only takes a second for understanding to dawn on Cas. “Sam, no, it’s me. Just me. No one else in my vessel.” He reaches out, but Sam flinches back from his touch, almost on instinct. It stings, and Castiel wants nothing more to rewind to a few minutes ago, when they’d been holding hands like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But Sam is beginning to look fearful, taking measured steps away from Castiel, and his expression is twisting something inside of Cas that he hadn’t known existed prior to this. “Sam, I swear it’s just me,” he pleads. “Dean killed Lucifer, remember? He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“How do I _know_?” Sam repeats, eyes wide and face pale under the moonlight.

“Sam—”

But then the scene dissolves again.

Castiel does not have a heart to call his own, but something inside him definitely sinks when he realizes that this third arena in Sam’s memories is the Cage. Perfectly dark, perfectly still and terrifying, ozone-air and thick-sulfur-taste, and glowing red eyes.

Beside him, Sam lets out a low moan. “No. Not this, not again, _please_ —”

“Sam,” Cas barks, reaching out and taking his hand. Sam, thankfully, does not pull away this time. “Sam, this is _not_ real, you’re not really here—”

“You don’t know that!” Sam says, fingers tightening around Castiel’s. “You don’t _know_! I keep thinking it’s not real but it always is!”

“This time it really isn’t,” Cas tries, but Sam does not seem to be listening any longer. His gaze is fixed on the pair of glowing red eyes in the corner, Lucifer’s figure shrouded in darkness but undeniably there, his presence a suffocating weight on Castiel’s chest.

“Please,” Sam whispers, voice wet from unshed tears, and something breaks in Cas.

“Oh, Sam,” he murmurs, before letting go of his hand.

“No, please don’t leave me!” Sam says in a rush, and he sounds so, so scared, so _young_ , and Castiel wants nothing more than to protect him forever.

“I’m right here,” he reassures, taking Sam’s hand in his again. This time, instead of holding it, he presses his thumb into the years-old scar running across his palm. It was effective once, he knows, and he hopes that here in Sam’s head, it works again. “It’s not real, Sam,” he tells him gently. “You’re not there anymore. You’re safe, I promise you.”

He presses into the scar once more, and the Cage blurs and falls away.

It’s still dark when the world comes back into focus, but nothing like the Cage. They’re in the Impala, droplets of rain on the windows, the purr of the engine and Robert Plant’s voice in the background, and – Dean’s gentle snoring. Cas can’t help a wry smile as he looks into the backseat to find his friend fast asleep, contorted strangely to fit into the small space.

Sam is driving, lips pressed together into a thin line. “What’s going on, Cas?” he asks once Cas turns back to face the front.

“What?”

“You said all this wasn’t real,” Sam reminds him. “So tell me – what’s happening?”

“You got hit by a spell on a hunt,” Cas tells him, getting the words out quickly in the hopes that he can make Sam understand before they go off on a tangent again. “It knocked you out, and the witch used djinn venom, so I drank African dream root to come find you and wake you up.”

“Where’s Dean?” Sam asks.

“Keeping watch,” Cas tells him. “Sam, you need to wake up, you need to come back—”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Sam asks. “How do I know this isn’t some – some figment of my imagination?”

“How else would I have known to press the scar?” Castiel asks.

Sam considers this for a few moments, keeping his eyes on the road. During this time Cas watches him, traces his profile with his eyes, and _yearns_. There is something about Sam, like this, face painted silver in the moonlight, eyes lighting up as every passing streetlight is reflected in them. He is beautiful, ethereal, and so, so close. Cas only really has to reach out. Here, in Sam’s head, they are already together – why else would he wake up in Sam’s bed, with its two pillows? Why else would Sam so casually take his hand? Why else would Sam insinuate they’ve been intimate?

But out there, in the real world, Sam is not attainable. And he will remain that way, if he does not wake up.

“It makes sense,” Sam says finally, jolting Castiel out of his thoughts.

“What does?” Cas asks.

“This not being real.” Sam lets out a short laugh. “I mean, me and you? I should’ve known that’s too good to be true.”

“Too good to be true?” Cas repeats. “Sam, why would you think that?”

“Because I don’t get to have that, out there in the real world,” Sam says. He sounds unbearably sad. “Out there, you and I are just friends. I don’t get to have anything more than that.”

“Do you – do you _want_ something more?” Cas asks, not daring to hope.

Sam snorts, mirthless. “C’mon, Cas. According to you, you’re in my head. What does it look like?”

Cas thinks on it for a few seconds. “Are we – are we a couple here, Sam? In your head?”

Sam nods, a small, tight movement. He doesn’t speak.

“And this is what you want?”

Another nod. It looks like Sam doesn’t trust himself to talk right now.

Castiel can relate. With every word out of his mouth he is afraid he will ruin it all, and yet – and yet, he can’t _not_ try. Not in the wake of this revelation. “Why didn’t you say anything, then?” he asks softly.

“Because you might say no,” Sam finally answers, so vulnerable that it makes Cas ache for him. “And then I’ll have ruined it.”

“You are ruining nothing, Sam,” Cas assures him. “I promise you that.”

“But—”

“And I could never say no,” Cas continues, not caring that he’s interrupting Sam. “ _Never_. Not to you, not about this.”

“Why?” Now Sam is whispering.

So Castiel whispers, too. “Because,” he says, reaching out across the seat to take Sam’s hand, “there is nothing in the universe I want more than this, Sam. More than _you_.”

“I—” begins Sam, but then the car melts away.

They’re back in Sam’s room, except now Sam is in bed too, lying next to Castiel. They are both fully clothed, and yet the moment feels extremely intimate; there are scant inches of space between them, and Sam is looking up at Cas with such naked hope on his face that it feels like touching a livewire just to look at him.

“You really mean that?” he asks. “That you – you—”

“That I want you?” Cas completes, and does not understand where this sudden bout of bravery is coming from. “Yes, Sam. I mean that.”

“Then why didn’t you _say_?” Sam asks.

“Because,” Cas says, and smiles, “you might have said no.”

Sam laughs at that, and Cas delights in the way the uncertainty and fear melt off his face. He looks a decade younger, so much less world-weary and worn. “This is so unbelievable,” he mutters, and moves forward to hide his face in Cas’s chest. “We were so _dumb_.”

“Are,” Cas corrects with a grin, and wraps his arms around Sam, because he _can_ , because finally he’s allowed—

“We really should go back now, huh,” Sam murmurs.

“Yes,” Cas says. “Dean is worried.”

“Does he know?” Sam asks. “That you, uh—”

“That I am in love with you?” Castiel asks bluntly. “That I have been for close to a decade now? No, Sam, I don’t believe he does.”

“That’ll be a fun conversation to have,” Sam mutters. “Seriously, though – a _decade_?”

“I could not help it,” Cas tells him fondly. “You have a way of knocking down all my defenses in a way I am helpless to stop.”

Sam pulls back a little just to give him a smile, wide and open. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Castiel. “And that is not going to change, in any world.”

Dean, once more, has a glass of dream root halfway to his mouth when Castiel says, “Stop!”

“Oh, thank God,” Dean says fervently, slamming the glass down on the bedside table. “I really didn’t want to drink that god-awful crap. Where the hell were you guys? Took you long enough!”

Instead of answering, Cas sits up, and looks to his side to find Sam awake as well, blinking blearily as he sits up as well. Immediately Dean is at his other side, hands on his shoulders to steady him. “Sammy, hey,” he says. “You okay?”

Sam nods. “I’m fine, Dean,” he tells him with an assuring smile. “The witch?”

“Dead,” Dean tells him. “Cas got her.”

“Okay,” says Sam.

There is an awkward moment where neither Sam nor Cas are looking at each other, and Dean is looking at both of them – and then Castiel decides, in a manner eerily similar to Dean’s, to ‘fuck it, and go for it.’ He puts both hands on Sam’s shoulders, knocking Dean’s hands off, and then leans in slowly, giving Sam plenty of time to move away if he wishes to.

“What in the _fuck_ —” begins Dean, but stops abruptly when Sam closes the remaining distance between them and presses his lips to Castiel’s.

The smell of earth after rain, freshly mown grass, old worn leather, gun oil and smoke – and every star in the universe, every supernova, _no constellation could compare to this,_ thinks Castiel – and underneath it all, warmth and safety and kindness and unconditional love, the way Sam’s hair smells after he’s just showered, the woodsy scent of his cologne, the soft cotton of his shirt under Cas’s fingers—

Castiel has no soul, and will never know Heaven like a human would – and yet, he is not missing out. Not when everything that he could ever consider Heaven is right here, in his arms.

Sam is panting a little when he finally pulls away, a breathless smile on his face, hair mussed, and oh, Cas hadn’t even known his fingers had been in there. “Hey,” Sam whispers.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel answers, almost automatically, and Sam laughs loudly at that.

“Never change, Cas,” he says, before melting into the embrace and letting Cas support his weight.

“Do either of you want to tell me what’s going on?” Dean asks loudly, laying waste to the moment.

“What does it look like is going on?” Sam mutters irritably, turning his head on Cas’s shoulder so he can glare at his brother.

“Why are you guys kissing?” Dean demands, gesturing wildly at the two of them.

“Ugh,” is Sam’s response, which means it falls to Castiel to explain.

He makes sure the angel blade is well out of Dean’s reach before saying, “Well, Dean, it would appear that your brother and I are… a couple.”

“A couple,” Dean repeats flatly.

“Yes,” says Castiel. “I feel as if referring to Sam as my boyfriend would be too juvenile, while referring to him as my lover would be presumptuous especially considering we have only kissed so far.” Sam’s face is growing progressively pinker with each word, while Dean looks like he’s losing a brain cell with every second that passes. “Meanwhile, partner is too ambiguous a word—”

“Stop!” Now Dean sounds strained. “Just – just stop, okay, I get it.” He looks pained as he gets to his feet. “I’m just gonna – I’ll go get another room, and uh, leave you two to it. Hey, Sam.” Some of the mirth returns to his expression as he grins as his little brother. “I’m so happy you are finally gonna lose your virginity, dude.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sam snaps, but without any heat. He is still flushed. Castiel thinks he looks extremely beautiful.

“And you,” says Dean, and Cas blinks when he realizes that Dean has picked the angel blade up again and is pointing it at him. “I probably don’t need to tell you this, but he’s my baby brother, so I’m going to say it anyway. You hurt one overgrown hair on his head, and—”

“You will shove the blade so far up my ass I’ll vomit grace,” finishes Castiel deadpan. “I am aware.” It’s not the first time he’s heard Dean use that threat.

Dean glares. “Don’t steal my thunder,” he huffs. “It’s a good threat, okay? Creative. And I mean every word of it.”

“I know you do,” Cas tells him seriously. “And you have my word, Dean – I would rather die a thousand deaths than hurt Sam in any way.”

“That won’t be necessary!” Sam protests. “Like, at all! Okay, Dean, you can leave now!”

“You can’t sexile me—”

“I can! I’m doing it right now! Go!”

“Ugh, _fine_. And you guys better keep it down, okay, I value my sanity—” And with that, Dean slams the door shut after himself.

There is a moment of silence, and then Cas asks, “Sam?”

“Yes?”

“May I kiss you again?” It’s a very enjoyable activity, especially with Sam. Castiel can see why humans spend so much time doing it.

Sam laughs, and it is the loveliest sound in the world. “Only if you promise me this is all real.”

“Nothing is realer than this,” Cas promises him.

“Then yes,” Sam whispers with a smile. “You may kiss me again.”

And Castiel does, and he buries himself in the feeling of it, in Sam, and he understands what it must feel like to want to give every atom of your being to someone else. Because Sam may not be his soulmate, not in the literal sense of the word, and he will always be Dean’s, first and foremost – but he is also Castiel’s, and his soul is Castiel’s to protect, to safeguard, to hold himself against and cherish. And Castiel does not need to compare himself or measure himself against anyone else, because it does not matter. Nothing matters but the way Sam holds on to him and kisses him, the softness of his hair between Cas’s fingers, the warmth of his body underneath Castiel’s – nothing matters but Sam, who is choosing this, choosing _Cas_ , and trusting him with himself, with his body.

And Castiel recognizes it for what it is – a gift, given with love and trust, and one he intends to keep for as long as he can, as long as he is allowed to. Sam deserves nothing less. He deserves to be loved and cherished, kept safe and warm, protected against anything and everything—

And to Castiel, there is no greater honor than being the one Sam allows to give him all of it.

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know what you thought!
> 
> love,  
> remy


End file.
